


The Egregiously Well-Travelled, Nyla Warrington

by fated_desires



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Independence, Inspired by Bridgerton (TV), One Shot, Period Piece, Romance, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_desires/pseuds/fated_desires
Summary: A One-Shot based off the Bridgerton series.Nyla Warrington has shunned societal expectations in favor of her own desires for life. She fled London when she reached marrying age to travel the world. She thought she had rid herself of London high society for good, until her brother runs off with a ladies-maid and her father demands she return home at once. She finds herself in an impossible situation; marry and continue the family legacy, or suffer disownment. As a woman living in the regency era she would not survive long without her father's financial support. Begrudgingly, she agrees to enter society at a ball that will be held in her honor by her cousin, Simon Basset, The Duke of Hastings. The night was unbearable―until a certain Collin Bridgerton makes her acquaintance, that is.
Relationships: Collin Bridgerton/Original Character
Kudos: 15





	The Egregiously Well-Travelled, Nyla Warrington

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one shot for a friend of mine who is currently obsessed with Bridgerton.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Let me know if more Bridgerton one-shots are something you'd like to see!

Miss Nyla Warrington was no stranger to the judgmental temperaments of the members of high society. The overtly egregious manner by which she lived her life had left audiences of shock and dismay in her wake for as long as she had mustered the courage to claim her life as her own, and no one else's. As it was, she had decided long ago that the opinions of others were utterly irrelevant to her. She would pay them as much mind as one paid the ants which were inevitably crushed on a leisurely stroll―not pondered upon for even a fragment of a moment.

Yes, she had long perfected her ability to calibrate members of high society to the same level of a tiny insect. She was quite proud of herself for detaching from societal expectations, and in the process, creating for herself a world entirely of her own imagining. She wouldn’t have dreamed of living any other way.

She never once fathomed she would find herself back in the clutches of high society, having to claw her way back into the good graces of those gentlemen and ladies―the existence of whom she had never paid a second’s thought―in order to secure a future she did not even want.

As a result, she found herself quite underprepared to be thrown back into their elite circles, having never imagined it something she would ever bring herself to do. Yet here she stood, in the guest bedroom of her distant cousin, Simon Basset, The Duke of Hastings, mustering up the courage to face the mob of inarguably the most judgmental of high societies― _the ton_.

And who, pray tell, did she have to thank for her current predicament? None other than her own flesh and blood.

Her brother had run off to France to marry a house-maid, and if that wasn’t enough cause for a scandal, her father’s subsequent disownment of him and his demand for his fallen daughter’s return to high society was more than enough gossip-worthy news for _the ton_ to feast on. As her father’s only accepted heir left, she was to marry at the soonest opportunity in order to salvage her family name, and title.

He was unwilling to part with the family title of marquess, and in his obsessive quest to maintain it, he had found his answer. He allowed no other obstacles in the way of his master plan to occupy his mind, and was convinced that all of Nyla’s taboo travels would be forgiven by any man in his right mind. Afterall, who would turn down the opportunity to secure the title of marquess?

He was willing to forfeit the title passing to his own true heir, but he would not permit the title to leave the family name. His one condition was that her husband―who would undoubtedly be an untitled lower ranking member of high society, possibly a second son―take on her family name.

Nyla had pleaded with her father, attempting tirelessly to convince him that this was utter madness, that she would never be welcomed with open arms into any circle of high society, but had failed miserably. If there were ever any doubt of where her stubbornness had derived, it was now plain as day that she had inherited it from her father. A more hard-headed man had never been born.

And so here she found herself, counting down each second until the time just before fashionably late met with severely uncouth for the arrival to a ball held in one’s own honor. She fumbled with the lace trimmings on her blue satin gown, played with the loose brown curls which hung over her shoulder where they had been plucked from the carefully braided coils atop her head, and found herself wishing―not for the first time in her life―she was a man so that she may have a glass of brandy―or _three_ ―to attempt to settle her ever growing nerves. Surely nothing short of a drunken stupor would allow her to survive this night.

Three consecutive knocks sounded at her door, and she knew that her moments of solitude, her efforts at procrastination, were over.

“Coming!” she sounded, standing up from where she was seated in front of her vanity and making her way to the bedroom door.

She had expected to be met with a ladies-maid, but instead found herself face to face with Daphne, lady of the house, and the Duchess of Hastings. The latter title was irrelevant in the present context. As lady of the house she could not have her guest of honor arrive unfashionably late or she’d be to blame.

She should have felt guilty for almost compromising the good opinion of her cousin’s wife― she was, afterall, a kind woman―but she found herself unable to muster any feelings of guilt. The mere concept that blame for someone else’s tardiness could ruin the reputation of another woman was laughable in and of itself.

“I apologize for not having made my entrance yet, your grace.” she offered.

She should have given an excuse for her tardiness, but somehow she knew that Daphne would be able to see past whatever reason she could have thought up. Even for only knowing her a short time she could see she was a woman wise beyond her years, not susceptible to any deceptions.

“No need for apologies,” Daphne waved off, “I’m certain you’re tired from all your travels and merely lost track of the time.”

Daphne held out her arm for Nyla to hold as they started making their way down the corridor and to the grand staircase that would lead to the doors of the ballroom. The sly smile that Daphne gave her did not escape her notice, it was as if she knew that Nyla would rather be anywhere else right now.

“I know these are the last circumstances you ever imagined for yourself, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find something from which to find enjoyment this evening,” Daphne mused, giving her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

Was her displeasure that apparent? No, Nyla was sure it was far more likely that this woman standing beside her was a mind reader.

She offered Daphne a small smile, hoping her powers of intuition were strong enough to deduce that conversation would be impossible for her to maintain at the present moment. Graciously, Daphne didn’t press her any further for conversation, and they walked the rest of the way in silence―the only sound their shoes pattering away on the marble flooring. As denoting of the passing of time as the ticking of the hands on a clock.

When they reached the end of the grand staircase, Nyla took a deep inhale of breath in preparation for the onslaught of introductions she was sure to be met with as soon as she entered the ball room. There was nothing more she disliked than having to entertain irrelevant conversations with people she did not know―or care to know for that matter.

“Just be yourself, and the night will be through before you know it,” Daphne advised, giving her hand one final squeeze before letting go to step through the doors and announce Nyla’s entrance.

A chill passed over her right side taking up residence in the spot that Daphne had just occupied. It sent shivers down her arms, forming goosebumps underneath the thin fabric of her gloves. She fought the urge to run back up the stairs to her bedroom and cover herself in the thick down of her bed spread. She shook her head and righted her shoulders. She would not allow a measly ball to be her undoing.

But as the crowd quieted, turning their gaze to Daphne to hear her announcement, and shortly after she saw Daphne step to the side and gesture for Nyla to enter the ballroom, she found her resolve falling away, scattering out of her reach like tiny pieces of parchment taken up by a billowing breeze.

Her heart clenched with the reality of what this ball meant. There was no turning back now. Visions of her happiest moments filled her mind as she entered the ballroom, blocking her sight of the people applauding her entrance, the sound of their clapping replaced by the constant wracking of waves on a shore.

She was laying on the course white sands of a Grecian beach, the clear turquoise waters of the Mediterranean filling the air with the crisp scent of its salty waters, the surface shining with the afternoon sun. The rising voices of the crowd in the ballroom, replaced by the soothing caws of seagulls flying high on the horizon.

How she would give anything to be back there now. To once again take in new sights and experiences in foreign lands, to have the shackles of societal expectations plucked from her wrists. Would she ever feel the breeze of a new world on her skin? Would she ever feel the rush of excitement as she ran barefoot on the soil of a new land after months at sea?

The sound of her name being called pulled her from her reverie. She felt the wetness in her eyes and knew that onlookers would only think she was overwhelmed with the joy of having finally returned to her rightful place. How wrong they were.

“Lady Warrington, it is an honor to make your acquaintance,” crooned a man with light blonde hair as he took her gloved hand in his and brought her knuckles to his lips.

She fought the instinct to flinch upon the contact. She was sure he had said his name, but she hadn’t been listening and she didn’t care to inquire again.

She spent the next hour tolerating similar interactions. She danced twice with two different men. Each man she met that night alarmingly more bland than the last. One even dared to inquire whether she had truly travelled as much as was rumoured or if she had spread the rumour herself to appear more risqué. She had laughed straight in his face and walked away. After that she thought, she’d had quite enough. She had settled into a gap in the crowd and when the opportunity arose, she quickly made her escape through the large doors leading to the terrace.

She walked across the expanse of the terrace until her elbows could rest against the cool railing, the cold contact on her too warm arms making it feel as though fragments of ice were becoming one with her skin. It was a chilly late-October evening but the cold was a welcome respite from the heated air of the ballroom.

She felt suffocated. Suffocated by the company, suffocated by the conversation, suffocated even by her own thoughts that she didn’t dare speak to a soul for they would surely think her mad.

The women she had tried to find solace in were just as lost as the rest of them. None of them able to comment on anything aside from the exquisite style of the ballroom decor and the excellent choice in refreshments. Did not a one of them see how concerningly _small_ their world was?

She sighed loudly in defeat, her stomach wrenching at the thought of _this_ being the best her future had in store for her. She sighed again, wrenching her eyes shut to fight back the tears that were involuntarily forming.

“Someone may think you’re in danger of a pulmonary attack with sighs like those,” came a male voice from behind her.

She tensed and opened her eyes turning her head the smallest amount so she could make out the intruder who had interrupted the only moment of solitude she had been able to find the entire evening. He was tall, with thick dark brown hair, and a lopsided grin that took up entirely too much of his face.

“My word, I think your gaze will turn me stone if I step any closer,” he teased, grin still plastered on his face.

He walked closer despite his last remark, leaning his back against the railing and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You seem to have a desire to become another decorative carving of stone on this terrace, my lord,” she quipped.

“I’ve always fancied myself a devout fan of the physical arts,” he teased, “can’t imagine a better way to prove my devotion than to become a piece myself.”

She shook her head and laughed. Her first genuine laugh since she was called back to London by her father.

“There now, this evening isn’t all that dreadful is it?” he surmised, turning to rest his elbows on the railing, and pulling a tin of cigarettes from his pocket.

He offered one to her and she looked up at him skeptically. Women, afterall, weren’t supposed to partake in such leisurely activities.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he promised, throwing her a wink.

His eyes were a fierce shade of green, she noted. They reminded her of the moss that covered the rocky expanses of the Scottish moors.

She accepted the cigarette and he let out a small chuckle as he reached into his pocket to pull out a lighter. She brought the cigarette to her lips and he leaned down to her level to light it for her, cupping his opposite hand over the flame to prevent the wind from blowing it. She noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves as was customary at such formal events as balls.

“You’re not wearing gloves,” she noted as she took a draw of the now lit cigarette, turning her gaze from his ungloved hands to face the expansive gardens.

The smoke filled her lungs and she was reminded of the many evenings she had spent in Paris, laughing with fellow travelers and sipping on exquisite wines from acclaimed vineyards.

“I find them awfully constricting,” he complained, before proceeding to wiggle his fingers in a manner most unbefitting of a gentleman, “I find my fingers simply unable to breathe in those wretched things.”

His grin seemed to spread even wider across the lower quadrant of his face and she wondered how that was anatomically possible. She found she couldn’t help but smile too. His levity was contagious.

“Now that I’ve undoubtedly brightened your evening, might we make our introductions?” he asked with a wiggle of his brows.

“You really have no conception of propriety do you?” she mused, shaking her head in false judgment.

“Afraid not,” he admitted, leaning in before continuing, “you want to know a secret?”

She looked up at his deep green eyes, noted the obvious excitement of his features and found herself nodding, curious to see what more this strange man had to say.

“I think,” he started, “propriety is much overrated.”

A gasp escaped her lips at his bluntness. She’d met people with much the same opinions on her travels but had never dreamed she’d find any like-minded person in London.

“I’m sure you already know my name, so tell me what may I call you besides improper?” she derided.

“You may call me by my name, of course!” he insisted.

She laughed again, and so did he, the action causing the air in between them to turn white as the heated air of their breath mingled with the cold night air.

He adopted an air of seriousness for the first time since she’d met him.

“It’s Collin,” he said, “Collin Bridgerton.”

“Daphne’s brother?!” she exclaimed.

“Well, yes,” he stated matter-of-factly, “that is one of the many titles attributed to me, along with a host of others; outrageously handsome, incomparably witty, magnificently―”

She put her cigarette out on the railing and brought a finger to his lips to silence him.

“Enough!” she laughed, pulling her hand away and back to the railing, “Collin will do, you needn’t trouble yourself with crafting anymore ridiculous adjectives.”

“So tell me, Nyla,” he drawled, “what’s a worldly woman like yourself doing returning back to London society?”

She turned away from him, focusing on a dying rose bush in front of her line of vision. A fitting view, she thought, thinking of her dreams that were dying in much the same manner. Snuffed out before they could even be captured.

“I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” she whispered, her words floating away with the ghost of her breath in the wind. She was unsure he had even heard her.

“What if you did?” he asked, tilting his head over the railing, the movement pulling her gaze away from the dead roses and back to him, “What if you could decide? What would you choose?”

She stared back at him for a long moment, pondering his question. She had never been asked what she wanted. No one had ever thought to ask her. She had simply been told what was expected of her until the day she decided she'd had enough and took what she wanted for herself.

That day she had ‘borrowed’ her brother’s clothing and raided her fathers office for the hidden pouch of money he stored there for emergencies. She couldn’t have thought of a more emergent situation than the restlessness she felt when she reached marriageable age and the entirety of her future was on the cusp of being selected for her. She couldn’t bear to stay in London a moment longer.

She had rented a carriage to the nearest port, and purchased a ticket for the next ship―she’d ended up in Italy. Nothing could have compared to the feeling she had felt when she stepped off that ship onto the Italian shores. It had been as if she was transported to another world. All of her studies and readings could never have prepared her for the exhilarating feeling of freedom that had rushed through her in that moment. She had felt as if for the first time in all her life, she could finally _breathe_.

“I’d leave,” she blurted, “I’d book the first ship out and never look back I―”

She broke off and turned her gaze down to the flagstone flooring of the terrace, before she could continue reciting her dreams to him.

“But I can’t,” she breathed, “my father would disown me, and as a woman I can hardly find gainful employment. My future is here, and I have no say in the matter.”

She looked back up at him and found a look of such sadness on his face. She had never voiced her troubles to anyone, and she realized she may have overstepped―he spoke of his disdain for propriety, but maybe it was just in jest.

“What if you could have both?” he asked, his green eyes flitting between her brown ones.

“You speak of dreams, sir, and I’m afraid I have no more tolerance for unfulfilled flights of fantasy,” she turned and started to take a step away from him and rejoin the lack-luster ball where she was expected to be. Where she should be.

Her place was inside; finding a man that would take on her family name and accepting her place in society was where she ought to be, not standing out on a frigid terrace entertaining fantastical thoughts that would never come to fruition. But before she could take another step away, a hand gripped around her arm like a vice, and she was swung back around to face the man she had just spilled all her most intimate dreams to.

“It’s not a dream,” he insisted, “Marry me.”

She looked up at him, her mouth agape and her eyes wide. He looked the exact opposite. He was confident, that wide contagious grin once again taking up residence on his face.

“Marry me,” he said again, “and you can have it all. I don’t care about your family’s title, and until tonight I was convinced I’d never marry. I don’t want to be tethered to London forever and I never dreamed I’d meet a like-minded woman. And in truth I am not entirely unconvinced that you are merely a manifestation of my imagination and not flesh and blood.”

A loud laugh escaped her. She couldn’t stop it.

“You’re mad,” she effused, shaking her head in dismay, “You’re utterly mad―are you serious?”

“Most ardently,” he stated, his tone and face a somber reflection of his sincerity.

Her breath caught in her throat. My _God_. He was serious. This man, who up until a mere forty minutes earlier had been a complete stranger, was standing here, before her, asking for her hand in marriage and offering her everything she had ever dreamed of having.

She didn’t know what possessed her to utter the words she did in that moment; maybe his madness was just as contagious as his smile, or maybe she realized she would be a fool to let go of an opportunity such as this. Hell maybe _she_ was the mad one, imagining him, but she didn’t care. That same feeling of exhilarating freedom she had felt on the Italian shore was sweeping over her once more, at the notion of _marriage,_ to this man. She had never dreamt this a possibility.

“Yes!” she nearly shouted.

His laugh was one of relief and excitement, “Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes.” she said nodding her head vigorously, her lips spreading into a wide grin that mirrored his.

He reached out and took both of her hands in his and brought them up to his lips brushing multiple relentless kisses to her knuckles. Her laughter only egging him on.

“How are you real?” he asked, moving her hands away from his lips and closing the distance between them, entwining their fingers.

“How are _you_ real?” she asked back, the smile still in full form on her face.

They stood there looking at each other for the longest moment, before he reached out and cupped one of her cheeks with his hands, the other moved to her waist and he brought his lips to hers. The kiss was the answer to their question.

  
They were real, tangible―as physical as the stone statue that Collin had been certain she would turn him into the moment they had met. They broke apart, their foreheads touching, as they caught their breath.

And for the first time in her life, Nyla Warrington felt as if she could breathe in London.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this one-shot, I had originally planned to share it only with my friend, but I decided to post it here on a whim. I really wasn't expecting it to get as many hits as it did. Thank you!
> 
> At the behest of my friend, I am considering expanding upon this one-shot and turning it into a short story! 
> 
> Is this something you guys would like to see? I already have a few ideas planned for the plot, let me know!


End file.
